Cloudy with a chance of Poetry

In the wee hours of some September nights
Hidden beyond dense canopies of slumber
An introvert sky unleashes its inks
And unnoticed by all,
The downpour of icicle-like water, slowly morphs,
Into a hushed, lyrical, barely-there,
Whisper-like drizzle, of Words!

And few insomniacs, a lot like me
Drunk partly on spirits, and partly on life
Gather them from the sidewalks
And confine them to pale pages,
Bruising them black, and blue, and indigo
And call these plagiarised prisoners- Poetry.

Hickey

This morning, as I stood before the mirror,
I found new streaks on my body,
Semilunar temporary tattoos,
That have crept up overnight-

You left remembrance on my breasts
With gentle carresses of your teeth,
Sinking softly into my flesh.
I like to think of them as
One last valiant attempt, to hold on,
To these last pigmented bits of togetherness
When there’s no way that you, can, not, go.

But efforts, although valiant, can still be futile
And it’s just skin, flail with vanity, and it’ll forget.
The alive reds will soon turn,
First livid blue, then cold black, dull green,
And then, pale into Yellow.
An entire palette, and yet too insipid,
To match the entire myriad of colours,
That you run through my mind.

The entire myriad, too much for my mind,
Now leaching onto my skin, for a few brief days-
Like dark, forgotten water trails,
Through the faults of cracking limestone caves.
Iridescent, yet fleeting, memoirs, of secret seasons of love,
Bursting out, from the weakest parts of me,
Where my mortal body, cannot contain them.

But it’s just skin, it’ll soon forget.
The seasons will change soon too,
The sky outside our windows, sooner.
But the hickeys on my soul,
Will have your touch etched into them
Neither superficial, nor gentle.
Deeper.
Here, to last seasons,
Here, to stay longer.

All around me now, are dry autumn breezes,
Colours of Fall, on my body that only knew summers
And once in a while, downpours, untimely rains.
Marks on my body fade, not used to feeling this way
And I realise-
It’s not only the seasons, the bruises-
That change, that leave,
When I want them to stay.

Fernweh

(Quite literally, a longing for far-off places.)

Last night,
The Boy with the Summer Caramel and Winter Chocolate eyes,
Told me, to set my second clock up at a difference of one more hour, because winter – and hence daylight saving time-
Jad crept into the Fairytale German Town, the one which will soon transform into Narnia with each snow.

The entire night-
I spent thinking,
Of Winters I never got to know
Of Monsoons that went by too fast,
And one whole night-
I thought of Forgotten Cemetaries
With the buried Sciencemen and Artists side by side
Of the sacred groves by the Oak and Willow trees,

But above all-
Above all, last night- I thought,
Of how, with The Boy moving to different shores in a fortnight-
I will never, never again get the chance,
To set this clock back by an hour.
In my hourglass – I will be the White Witch
That brought to this, My Narnia – a century long winter.

But slowly, slowly that same winter,
Crept in freezing my lungs, and I swear –
This morning, in this City of The Blazing Sun –
When I pulled up my knees to my chest,
And let out with some tears one aberrant sigh-
I felt the chill of the winter,
The pull of the approaching December,
fleeting by.

A 13, or perhaps 14- year old me,
Had read in a book that
” December people are temporary. “
Half my life went by wondering
if my effervescent nature will bring pestilence,
and sadness to the ones in my life.


But today – I realised,
December people are only temporary when you chain them
When you give them the wrong material things,
And expect them to grow Roots.

Give us December people,
A city where history lives on every door,
Give us a city with Solar Systems on its Cobblestone Pathways,
Give us a one-room apartment that has known more love-
More love than entire mansions can hold –
And you’ll find us – the Temporary People,
Weeping over cities, that we have
Hardly even lived in at all.

Of Sulphur winged Fireflies

You tell me, that it’s the Festival of Lights
Of Hopes, dreams & of Sulphur-winged Fireflies
Glittering transiently in the sky.

I want to believe you, I do.

But my battlefield of a body
Constantly haunted, by past tragedies
Looks at the orange sky, like Sauron’s Evil Eye,
And shudders, alone, at each thundering sound-

I only hear Guy Fawkes, this ain’t no Diwali.
This is Revolution. This is Retribution.
And it smells of Gunpowder, of Treason, and Plot.

The Sky colours up, with blood memories
Sparkles with wounds of distant explosions,
The City Cacophony, reminiscent of bygone wars.

Less Vision, More Blinding

Less Poetry, More PTSD.

Whispered Tales of Sedition

My breath holds dusts,
Like half-crumbling memoirs
Some figments from lost cities,
Some glitters from emerald tapestries,
Some bits of this maritime humidity
And frosted flakes of forgotten winters.

But I guess it’s for the better,
How no kiss came with complete abandon,
How your back under my nails,
Always shifted, uncomfortable
Betraying that tiniest bit of caution.
Scared, lest I transmit them-

Entire stories, captive under my eyelids
Entire worlds, inside my flesh and body.
Entire graveyards of almosts that died on my tongue.
Hand to hand, mouth to mouth,
More pamphlets, less poetry, reeking of my sedition.